


Taking Turns

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: H/C bingo, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Neal lies, Peter complains about being forced to watch The Red Violin, and Elizabeth works her magic from three thousand miles away. A spot of sickfic to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the airing of the White Collar pilot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Turns

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the wild card square on my h/c Bingo card (we're going to call it "Taking care of someone"), as well as for Caffrey-Burke Day 2012. Happy anniversary, White Collar fandom! Thanks to RabidChild67 for organizing this.
> 
> Thanks to Fuzzyboo for the beta!

"Are you sure you two will be okay?" El asked, frowning. "I can still cancel my flight -"

"No, you can't," Peter said, in a gravelly voice. "It leaves in two hours. We'll be fine, El."

Tucked into bed beside Peter, Neal wasn't sure he agreed. But there didn't seem to be much point in arguing about it. He and Peter had the flu, but they weren’t at death's door, and Peter was right: it was way too late for Elizabeth to cancel her flight to San Francisco. Even if it hadn't been too late, one of her biggest clients was counting on her to be there. They were going to have to be fine. 

Elizabeth sighed. "I just hate leaving the two of you like this."

"We'll look after each other," Neal said, leaning into Peter's shoulder to demonstrate. Peter was sweaty and smelled kind of funky, but Neal was freezing, despite layers of blankets, and didn't care. 

El’s face softened. "I know you will.” She glanced at her watch. "Okay, if I'm going, I need to go." She hesitated, then bent and kissed each of them on the forehead. "Make sure you get plenty of fluids. There's soup and Jell-O in the fridge. Be good, all right?"

“She means you,” Peter told Neal. 

“I mean _both_ of you,” El said with a frown. She glanced at Neal, opened her mouth, and then seemed to change her mind. She gathered up her purse and her small suitcase, cast them one last worried backward glance, and left. 

Neal waited until he'd heard the front door open and shut. "This sucks," he said succinctly. 

Peter shrugged. "There wasn't any other option. We'll be fine. You need anything?"

Neal thought longingly of a mug of hot tea with honey. But it seemed like an awfully long way down to the kitchen, and he couldn't ask Peter to get it for him. "No, I'm good."

"Okay. Let's try and get some rest then. Best thing for us, I'd guess."

"Yeah," Neal sighed. He slid down under the covers, and Peter rolled toward him, sliding his arm across Neal's chest. 

"This okay?" Peter mumbled, already half asleep. 

"Yeah," Neal said, lacing his fingers through Peter's. He was still cold, but warmer anywhere Peter was touching him. It really sucked that he and Peter were on their own, but this was so much better than it would have been if he were alone at June's. 

Though to be fair, at least at June's a cup of tea wouldn't have been a flight of stairs away.

He was nearly asleep when his phone rang. Peter grunted unhappily, but Neal fumbled for it on the bedside table and saw that it was El. He answered it, wondering if she'd forgotten something crucial. "Hey El," he said, extricating himself from Peter's grip enough to prop himself up on his elbow. 

"Hi sweetie," El answered. "Listen, I wanted to tell you something before I left, but I couldn't get you alone."

Neal frowned. "Okay," he said, even as Peter rolled away, taking his warmth with him. "What is it?"

"Peter is a terrible patient," El said. "He never tells you what he needs, and he tries to do way more than he should. Half of what I do when he's sick is just keeping him in bed or on the couch and resting, not cleaning the gutters or working from home.”

“Ah. So when you told us to ‘be good’ -”

“I was mostly talking to him, yes. I'm worried that because I'm not there, he'll overdo it. Promise me you won't let him?"

"I won't let him," Neal said, oddly touched. "I promise."

"Okay," El said with a sigh. "Thank you. I needed to hear that. I'll talk to you when I land in San Francisco, all right?"

"Okay. Have a good flight."

"Thanks. Love you."

"Love you, too," Neal said, and hung up. He looked down at Peter, who had fallen easily back to sleep. It had taken time for Neal to feel as though he was really a part of their marriage and not just an interesting add-on. Even now, there were times when he felt all too keenly that Peter and Elizabeth had the sort of easy, comfortable relationship that only came with time. It meant a lot to him that Elizabeth had entrusted Peter to him.

If only he didn't feel so damn sick himself.

Neal curled up with his head on El's pillow. It'd been a long time since he'd felt this awful. His head ached and his whole body felt feverishly chilled. He shifted a little closer to Peter's warmth and swallowed against his dry throat. The thirst he'd decided to ignore nagged at him, preventing him from achieving anything deeper than a light doze.

He roused when Peter did, grumbling his way out of bed. "Ungh?" Neal managed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Need something?"

"Just the bathroom," Peter grunted, staggering out the door.

Neal forced himself to sit up, El's words echoing in his ears. _Keep him in bed, resting._ Neal would've guessed that was easier said than done with Peter, even if El hadn't told him as much. But Neal was a conman. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was sell a story.

"You need anything?" Peter asked, shuffling back in. "I was going to make some tea."

"I can do it," Neal said, shoving the covers back. "I'm feeling better."

Peter frowned. "Really? 'Cause you look like hell."

Neal didn't even have to fake the look he shot him. "Thanks. You're a real flatterer. I mean it, the nap did me a lot of good. Lie down, let me make the tea."

Peter gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Okay," he said, going around to his side of the bed. "Hey, I left some files downstairs, do you think you could -"

"Not a chance," Neal said. "When you're no longer running a fever, then we can talk."

"Fine," Peter muttered. "But I'm picking the movie."

"Anything but _Field of Dreams_ ," Neal said, and pushed himself to his feet. His head swam, but he covered, casually steadying himself on the bedpost. He grabbed Peter's robe off the floor and shrugged into it. The dizziness didn't pass as quickly as he'd hoped, but Peter seemed occupied with scrolling through the Netflix menu and didn't notice. 

Neal just barely managed to not to run into the doorjamb on the way out. Once he knew Peter couldn't see him, he let himself sag against the wall. Making tea had never felt so daunting. 

By the time he got to the bottom of the stairs, Neal was so tired, he was tempted to lie down on the sofa. But if he did, he had the feeling he wouldn't get up again. Fortunately, El had thought ahead and had laid out everything they might need on the counter, including an array of tea and a tray to carry everything up. Neal filled two mugs and stuck them in the microwave to heat. Then he sat down on one of the stools at the kitchen island and slumped over, head on his arms. 

He almost managed to fall asleep that way, but the beeping of the microwave woke him. He added a bag of ginger tea and a dollop of honey to each mug. Then he took both mugs and stood at the foot of the stairs, trying desperately to find some untapped reserve he could use to mount them. 

Halfway up, he had to sit down or else risk falling. He leaned against the wall, head spinning, hot tea splashing out over both hands as they trembled. He was out of breath and exhausted, and he didn't think he could stand again without help. He wanted to call out for Peter. Between the two of them, they could probably get him back on his feet. 

But he couldn't. If Peter saw how weak he was, he'd insist on doing everything himself. Neal had promised El he'd look after Peter for her. He couldn't let her down. 

It took a few minutes, but eventually he was able to stand, slowly. He managed the last few steps without incident, though he paused at the top to catch his breath and mentally prep a story to explain how long he’d been gone. Satch had been begging to go out, Neal decided. When in doubt, blame the dog. 

A story wasn’t necessary, though. In the fifteen minutes it’d taken Neal to make tea, Peter had fallen back to sleep. Neal set the mugs down on his bedside table and nearly collapsed into bed. Being horizontal was wonderful, he decided, as he lay flat on his back with one arm over his eyes. Walking upright was highly overrated. 

At least Peter couldn’t see him like this. That would’ve blown the whole con wide open.

Eventually, he felt a bit steadier, or at least as though sitting up was an achievable task. He reached for his tea and took one fortifying sip, and then another. He glanced at Peter, weighing his options. Rest was important, but Peter was every bit as much in danger of dehydration as Neal himself was.

He nudged Peter. “Hey, Peter. Wake up and drink your tea.”

Peter grumbled. “Not thirsty.”

Neal sighed. “Yes, you are.” 

“Not.”

Neal sighed again, wishing more than anything that El was here to deal with this. “Please, Peter. Sit up and drink your tea.”

“Fine,” Peter grumbled. “Slave driver.” He propped himself up on one elbow and rubbed a hand over his face. “God. I feel awful.”

_Me too,_ Neal almost said, but fortunately remembered himself just in time. “Here, drink this,” he said instead. “It’ll help your throat.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, sitting up and accepting his mug. He sipped. “I’m glad one of us is feeling better.”

“Yeah,” Neal said, even as he cringed a little inside. He swallowed. “Do you need anything else?” _Preferably something that doesn’t involve going back downstairs,_ he added mentally. He honestly wasn’t sure what he’d do if Peter decided he needed a bowl of the soup El had left in the fridge. 

“Nah, I’m all right for now. I don’t want you running yourself ragged looking after me.” 

Neal nodded. He knew that for the sake of the con, he should probably argue, but he didn’t have the energy for it. They sipped their tea in silence, and he gradually relaxed, leaning into Peter’s shoulder again. At last, Peter cleared his throat. “Should we watch a movie?”

"Sure," Neal said. His voice was too faint. He coughed and tried again. "Did you decide on one?" 

"Yeah. _The Sting_.”

Neal groaned. "A caper flick? Are you joking?"

"My turn to choose. You can pick the next one."

"Great," Neal said. "I put _The Red Violin_ in our queue yesterday."

Peter’s groan was every bit as heartfelt as Neal’s had been. "Oh God, really? You're going to make me watch an art house film with subtitles when I'm sick?"

"It's not an art house film," Neal said with exasperation. "It has Samuel L. Jackson in it. And yes, I am. And before you argue with me,” he added, “I remind you who brought you tea.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter muttered, eyes on the TV as he loaded the movie.

They fell silent. Neal sipped his tea and let the dialogue from the TV wash over him. His head ached horribly, and he wanted to lie down and rest his head against Peter’s stomach, see if Peter wouldn’t stroke his hair a bit. But that might well have given the game away, or at least started Peter wondering. Instead he dozed off, half-sitting up, and only woke when Peter shook him awake to make him lie down properly. “‘m okay,” Neal muttered. 

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” Peter said. “But I was getting a crick in my neck just looking at you.”

“Mmm,” Neal said, and fell asleep. 

When he woke again, the movie had ended, and Peter was sliding out of bed. “Where’re you going?” Neal asked groggily, lifting his head from the pillow. 

Peter looked suddenly shifty. “Just the bathroom. Go back to sleep.”

Neal frowned. The thing about being a natural born liar was that he could smell his own kind. Especially less talented ones. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not _lying_ , Neal. Go back to sleep.”

“No, you’re going downstairs to get your files.” Neal sat up, too quickly, it turned out, and his head swam. “You’re not working. Get back in bed.”

“Neal, I’m _bored_ ,” Peter said with a sigh. “I can either read a novel or I can read case files, what’s the difference, really?”

“If El were here, would she let you read files?”

“No, but she’s not here, is she?”

“But I am.” Neal swung his legs off the bed. “I’m here,” he said, pushing himself up, “and you’re not going to -”

His legs gave out - or rather, they never held him up to begin with. He went from sitting on the bed to being suddenly on his knees on the floor, with nothing in between. “Neal!” Peter yelped. Neal pitched forward, landing on his hands. “Neal,” Peter said again, kneeling beside him. “Neal, talk to me.”

Neal managed a moan. His head was pounding and there were black spots swimming in front of his eyes. He thought he might be sick. “Peter,” he mumbled.

“Come on, buddy, sit back,” Peter said. “Lean against the bed. There, like that.” Neal opened his eyes. Peter was kneeling over him. “That’s better.” He stroked Neal’s hair off his forehead and frowned. “You’re burning up.”

There didn’t seem to be much point in lying. “I don’t feel so hot,” Neal confessed.

“Yeah, I got that. I thought you were feeling better?”

Neal gave a half-hearted, one-shouldered shrug. “I was.”

Peter eyed him. “Hmm,” was all he said. “Well. What do you think? Back to bed, or maybe a lukewarm bath? I’d really like to see if we can get your fever down.”

Neal gave a very small shake of his head. “I’m okay.”

“You’re a lot of things, Neal,” Peter said wryly, “but right now, okay isn’t one of them. I’ll go run you a bath.”

“No,” Neal said, hating the edge of desperation he could hear in his own voice, “don’t. I can do it.” 

He tried to get up, but Peter put his hand on his shoulder, pressing down. “Stay where you are. I’ve got this.” He stood and shrugged into his robe, then left the room. 

Neal sagged back against the bed, throat aching with tears of frustration. He’d tried. El had entrusted Peter to him and he’d tried, but he couldn’t do it. It was too much, and he wasn’t Elizabeth. She’d have found a way, he thought miserably. Somehow, she’d have found a way, if it’d been her. 

“Okay, the bath is running,” Peter said, as he came back into the bedroom. “Let’s get you . . . Neal?” Neal turned his head away, knowing it was too late. Peter crouched down beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not true. Hey. Look at me. What’s wrong?”

Neal forced himself to look Peter in the eye. “Nothing. I’m just sick, that’s all.”

“That’s not all. Tell me what’s wrong. If you tell me what’s wrong, maybe I can fix it.”

Neal shook his head. “No, that’s the point. You can’t. I told El - I _promised_ El -” Too late, he snapped his mouth shut. 

Peter was frowning at him again. “What did you promise El?”

“Nothing,” Neal muttered. 

Peter was silent, briefly. “C’mon,” he said at last. “Let’s get you undressed and into the tub.”

Minutes later, Neal found himself in the bathtub, his head pillowed on a rolled up towel, a cold compress draped across his forehead. The tepid water felt too cold against his fever-chilled body, but once Peter had taken his temperature and found it to be over a hundred and three, there’d been no arguing with him. Peter had made sure he was all right and then disappeared, leaving Neal to contemplate his failure. _You promised El. El trusted you. And you screwed up._ Round and round, until Neal thought he might weep. Again.

Peter returned after only a couple of minutes, cell phone in hand. “It’s El,” he said. “She wants to talk to you.” That was just about the last thing Neal wanted to do, but he held the phone out until Neal was forced to take it. “Don’t drop the phone in the tub,” Peter added, and left again, shutting the door behind him. 

Neal closed his eyes. “Hi, El.”

“Neal, sweetie, what _happened_? Peter said you practically keeled over.”

Neal felt tears pricking at the back of his eyes. “I tried, El. I tried to do like I said I would. But it was so hard, and I just felt so awful, and -”

“Neal, Neal, honey, stop. What did you say you’d do?”

Neal swallowed. “Take care of Peter. Keep him in bed and not working. I went and got tea for him, for both of us, but your kitchen was really far away. I had to sit down on the stairs on the way back. And then it was just like you said, he tried to work, and I tried to stop him, and I just . . . fell over.”

“Oh _sweetheart_.” El sounded stricken. “Of course it’s hard. It’s hard enough to keep an eye on Peter when he’s sick and I’m well. I didn’t mean that you should keep him in bed at your own expense, I’d _never_ mean that. Did you really think that’s what I wanted you to do?”

“I,” Neal stopped. “I don’t know. I know you were worried about him. I really wanted to take care of him for you.”

“And I’m glad, Neal. I am. But I need for the two of you to look after each other. Do you understand?”

Neal frowned. “But . . .”

“No but’s, Neal. You have to let Peter take care of you just as much as you take care of him. Otherwise I’m getting on the next plane back to New York, gala be damned. Do you understand me?”

Neal nodded, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yeah.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest. Do I need to come home early?”

“No,” Neal said, instantly.

“Neal. Think about it first.”

Neal did. “No,” he said at last. “But do you think - I know you were going to stay a few days after the gala. Do you think you could -”

“I’ll change my ticket,” El said, without hesitation. “I’ll come back early. I can probably be there by Sunday evening.”

Neal sighed. “We’ll probably both be fine by then.”

“Maybe,” El said. “But I’d rather be home with the two of you than by myself in San Francisco anyway. Oh shoot,” she added, “I’m so sorry, sweetie, but I have to get ready for dinner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning, all right?”

“All right,” Neal said. “Have a good night.”

“You, too. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” Neal hung up and set the phone down on the floor by the tub. He sagged back into the tepid water, feeling immensely relieved. El wasn’t mad at him, and probably Peter wasn’t mad at him either. He hadn’t screwed up. Or at least - not like he thought he had. 

Peter knocked at the bathroom door. “Neal? Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” Neal said. 

Peter came in and pulled the door mostly shut behind him. He looked at Neal and sighed, then folded himself up to sit on the floor by the tub, so the two of them were almost shoulder to shoulder. He picked up the cell phone Neal had just discarded and slipped it into his robe pocket. "I'm sick, you know,” he said, conversationally, “but that doesn’t make me stupid."

“I know,” Neal said quietly, studying his hands.

“For future reference, whatever you might think El is telling you, it’s a safe bet she wouldn't want you to lie to me. We need to take care of each other, and that means being honest."

Neal looked at Peter. "You asked me to bring up your case files the first chance you got.” 

"And you conned me the first chance _you_ got," Peter replied. 

Neal shrugged. “Old habits.”

“Right.” Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. How about this. I'll swear not to work until I'm no longer running a fever if you swear to be honest with me about how you're feeling."

Neal nodded. "Okay."

Peter eyed him sternly. "Okay what?"

"Okay, I swear to be honest with you about how I'm feeling."

"And how is that?" 

"Like hell," Neal admitted. He leaned his head back and looked at Peter. “Making tea was really hard.”

Peter made a distressed noise and shifted round to thread his fingers through Neal's hair. "I'm sorry.”

"S'not your fault," Neal murmured. "I'm just glad we're together."

"Yeah," Peter said. He leaned forward to press his lips against Neal’s. "Me too.”

Eventually, Peter decided that Neal had been in the tub long enough to satisfy him. He helped him stand up and towel off. They both took two Tylenol and filled glasses of water from the tap before shuffling back to the bedroom. Peter got him settled in the bed, then slumped down on the edge of the mattress beside him. “We should eat something,” he said. “And I need to let Satch out.”

He sounded exhausted. “Do you have to?” Neal asked. “I’m really not hungry.”

“Neither am I,” Peter said, “but we should. And I’m okay. I’ll lie down when I come back up.”

Neal pointed at him. “No sneaking peeks at casefiles.”

Peter held his hand up. “Scout’s honor.”

It took Peter a lot less time to heat up the soup than it had taken Neal to make tea. He returned within a few minutes with two bowls and two glasses of OJ on a tray, which he set down on Neal’s bedside table. He looked pale, though, and he didn’t argue when Neal told him to lie down before he fell down. Neal waited until Peter had gotten comfortable, propped up against the headboard, and then passed him his soup and his orange juice.

They ate mostly in silence, to Neal’s relief. It was hard enough to get the soup down, he didn't think he could make conversation at the same time. When they were done, Neal stacked the dishes on the tray. “I’ll take them down in a bit,” he said.

“No hurry,” Peter said, resting a hand on the blankets covering Neal’s knee. “I let Satchmo out while I was heating up the soup, and he’s got food and water. Neither of us needs to go down for a while.” 

Neal nodded. “But when one of us does, it’ll be me.”

Peter hesitated, then returned his nod. “Okay,” he said, reaching for the remote. 

Neal had prepared to have - and lose - an argument about what movie to watch next. But to his surprise, Peter cued up _The Red Violin_ without comment or complaint. Not that he looked particularly happy about it. "We can watch something else," Neal said, feeling almost guilty. After all, Peter _hadn't_ chosen _Field of Dreams_ earlier, even though he could have. 

"Nah, it's fine," Peter said, sinking down under the covers and closing his eyes. "I'll just fall asleep anyway. But the next one's mine." He opened one eye and fixed it on Neal. "Because that's how this works. We take turns."

Neal smiled. "Right," he said. He turned the bedside light off before rolling over to rest his head against Peter's shoulder. He was quiet for a moment, watching the opening credits. "Peter?" he finally said.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

Peter's hand found his beneath the covers and squeezed. "It's nothing."

Peter was asleep in less than ten minutes. Neal lay awake, listening to Peter's breathing in his ear and the comforting murmur of the television in the dark room. Rain pattered gently against the window. He wondered if he'd ever felt as safe as he did in that moment. 

His phone buzzed on the bedside table. He reached for it. El had texted: _How are my boys?_

Neal smiled and typed back, _Better. We ate your soup. Peter's asleep, and I'm watching a movie._

Thirty seconds later, his phone buzzed again. _Sounds like you're doing all right without me._

Neal paused briefly and glanced over at Peter. Sleeping peacefully, breathing easily. _We miss you,_ he wrote back at last. _But yeah, we're good._

_Fin._


End file.
